No sentence I write will ever be enough. No words can truly describe what I just felt—what I just lived through. My heart is broken, my mind is scattered, my words are failing me.

Writing this has been impossible, for no word I write is enough. 

I could write about the fear that haunted my body since the moment I woke up to sirens on October 7th. How the word ‘fear’ doesn’t feel strong enough. 

I could write about how difficult it was to process that missiles were headed straight towards me as I stumbled out of bed. How I only had a minute and a half to get down 3 flights of stairs to the bomb shelter. How we could hear the booms of every missile, intercepted or not. 

I could write about the utter shock I felt as I waited out my first rainstorm of missiles in the shelter. How I stood there trying to wake up and wrap my head around all of this. How I started to read the news saying this time was different—unprecedented. How dozens of terrorists infiltrated villages, apartment buildings, and family homes in the south, and were currently murdering and kidnapping anyone in sight. 

I could write about my total disbelief as I read that they were still there—and even more continued to come through the border. How I couldn’t fathom that they were still going door to door and taking entire buildings hostage. How I couldn’t help myself from calculating how long it might take for them to get to Tel Aviv. How on any other day, the south feels so far, but on that day, a few hours drive didn’t feel far enough.

I could write about every single “you okay?” text I sent and received. How every single time there was a delayed response, it was hard to breathe. How I realized a friend of mine was on the army base that was attacked. How I didn’t know if she was safe until the following day. 

I could write about how I thought the news of this massacre against innocent civilians must be the worst thing I had ever heard. How I thought it was so horrible, so cruel, and yet I had no idea that we hadn’t even heard the worst of it. 

I could write about how I was in such a state of shock that first day, I couldn’t even cry. 

I could write about my 5th trip down to the shelter on the first day. How even when I was pretending to be strong, the worry was written all over my face. How my neighbor tried to calm me when we heard more booms than usual. How I remember him reasoning with me, “The Iron Dome is so good, you don’t need to worry,” he said, “Especially in Tel Aviv—the rockets never land in Tel Aviv.”

I could write about how we walked out of the shelter 20 minutes later to the smell of smoke in the air, learning that two rockets had just hit Tel Aviv. How one of them hit an apartment building on my friend’s street and another in the neighborhood next to mine, both places a short 15 minute walk away. 

I could write about going back to my apartment in shock, not caring that I burned the dinner I was cooking before the siren went off. How it didn’t matter—I had no appetite anyways. 

I could write about how reluctant I was to call my family, knowing this would be the straw that broke me. How I knew if I called them—if I heard their voices—it would break me. How all I wanted to do was to calm their fears, but all I needed was to voice mine. 

I could write about my honest and raw confession to myself that first night—how the unprecedented nature of this attack, and the fact that the border was still open, left me wondering if I would survive this. The uncertainty of it all had me truly terrified that I would never get to see my family again.

I could write about how the realization hit me like a tidal wave—that just became true for hundreds of people. No warning, no goodbye. Just a completely devastating loss.

I could write about calling my brother that first night and losing it. How my first tears of what would be millions finally escaped. 

I could keep writing about October 7th, and it will never be enough. I could write and write and write and I would never be finished. Nothing could even come close.

I could write about how I felt on October 8th, too, though these words will never be enough. 

I could write about how I heard story after story of the victims, and my heart impossibly broke more. How people kept posting the numbers that wouldn’t stop rising: X killed, X injured, X kidnapped, X missing. How my frustration grew because numbers don’t do a person’s life story justice. How I thought of 500 people—500 individual human beings with their own personalities, their own loved ones who can’t imagine life without them, their own plans for the future that should still lay ahead of them.

I could write about how I didn’t think my heart could take anymore. How it wouldn’t stop breaking over and over and over. 

I could write about the love I’ve always had for the desert—the same desert that just became the site of a massacre. How I was always comforted by it being so remote and quiet and peaceful. How I had just gone camping in that very same desert, not too far away, a few weeks ago. How I know that there is literally nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. How I cried for how helpless they must have felt. 

I could write about how I will never see the desert the same. 

I could write about how small this country is. How easily the victims of this massacre could’ve been a friend, a colleague, someone I met at a bar, or went on a date with, or chatted at a cafe with, or shared a laugh with, or listened to play music on the street, or… 

I could write about how this is the current reality for most Israelis. 

I could write about how I still feel such profound sadness and loss, whether I knew them personally or not. How these are our people, the souls of our nation, the ones who make up our community. How they make our home, home.

I could write about how I know I will never be the same. How the world will never be the same. How my home will never be the same. 

I could write about feeling a complete loss of hope that the world is good, or that good will prevail over all evil. How I’ve never seen such deep-rooted cruelty and inhumanity so closely, so intensely, before. How now that I’ve seen it, I will never be able to forget it. 

I could write about how much I wish I could unsee it all. How I wish I could unsee the woman my age, dragged through Gaza by her hair; naked and unmoving. How I wish I could unsee that little boy, kidnapped and pushed around by Palestinian children like he was a toy. How I wish I could unsee another girl begging for her life. How I wish I could unsee the mothers arms clutching onto her children as they are taken away. 

I could write about how the attack was so unfathomable—so utterly terrifying—that my sense of security had left me completely. How the one place I have always felt most safe to live my life completely and truly, suddenly felt like the most dangerous place I could possibly be. 

I could write about sobbing for hours on end, alone in my apartment. How I wished more than anything, to be able to cry with the comfort of my mom’s arms around me. How I wished she could just hold me and protect me as I tried to process it all. How I had never hated living alone until that very moment. How my mind just kept fearing the worst, no matter how much I tried to stop it. 

I could write about how I had no clue what the next day would bring, or even the next hour. 

I could write about October 9th, too, but words do not do it justice. 

I could write about how I was paralyzed with fear. How it felt like the room was closing in on me when I learned that they started attacking from Lebanon, too. 

I could write about how each notification on my phone left me more frightened, more broken, more paralyzed. How my phone kept dinging; rockets in the south, rockets in the center, terrorist infiltration from the south, terrorist infiltration from the north, terrorist infiltration from the east. 

I could write about how it got even worse. How with every hour that passed, more people were added to the list of victims. How with every minute, it seemed like they uncovered new methods of torture that only the most vicious, inhumane evil could ever come up with. How they didn’t just write about it, they recorded it. How I couldn’t fathom a human being capable of any of it. 

I could write about how my mind played an endless loop of the worst possibilities for the future. How terrified I was knowing that the evil we saw in the south would come for more blood if given the chance. How every single noise had me questioning if I was next. 

I could write about crying and crying and the tears never ending. How the sobs shook through my body harder than I’ve ever felt in my life. 

I could write about my fear for my own life, my fear for my friends’, my fear for my country, my fear for the soldiers protecting us.

I could write about how everything just felt unbearably terrifying and all I could bring myself to do was sit there in my fear. 

I could write about how I haven’t been able to breathe properly since I went to sleep on October 6. 

I could write about all of it, and it will never be enough. I could write and write and write and I would never be finished. 

No matter how many details I use to describe how I didn’t just hear the booms, I felt them, 

No matter how explicitly I describe the sobs that wouldn’t stop raking through my body,

No matter how meticulously I express the devastating loss of human life,

No matter how clearly I recall how much I feared for my own life,

No matter how long I write about the lifetime that was these last few weeks,

No matter how much of my heart is pouring onto this page, 

Nothing I write will ever be enough.

As I read this back to myself, I think of more details, more pain, more memories that portray what it was like for those few days. But to what end? No word I write will ever, ever be enough. 

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I write this knowing I’m lucky. I’m lucky to have been in Tel Aviv. I’m lucky that everyone I care about is safe and alive. And if this is what it feels like to be lucky…my heart is in pieces over everyone who wasn’t.

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The people we lost on October 7, and every day since then, will never be forgotten. This country, this community, will feel their loss deeply, forever.

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Written by Jessica Bard.